Vizard meets Hollow

"This is such a drag." Mike looked up from the pages of the book he had brought along with him and wiped sweat from his brow. He had no idea how long he had been travelling, but that was the furthest thing from his mind right now. Mike shrugged off the backpack that housed all of his gear and tucked the book inside before taking stock of his supplies; water was that first thing he inventoried, making sure he had enough for his desert trek before getting too far into this journey before giving up. The bottles he had should last him for a few days provided he didn't do anything rash. It was odd to him, fretting over the amount of water he had available. For the better part of his life he'd always been able to find water whenever and where ever he needed it, but this journey was not one of power it was one of spirit. He had to discover the secrets housed within this text without the aid of his abilities, or so he was told. There were many things that the man he had purchased the text from had not explained before disappearing. Mike pushed the thoughts away for the time being. however, he needed to focus on the moment before the heat got to him.

Yaksha stumbled across the grounds, his body and soul both still cracked and bleeding. The pure agony of his encounter with Rodolfo had still not quite faded, and he hadn't quite been able to move past it. He still seemed to be staring at the world through a thick layer of gauze, and his hunger was so damnedably powerful right now. He felt 500 years younger, felt like everything he'd been teaching himself of late had just disappeared from his mind, like water dripping through a sieve. He tried ever so slowly to reach down and pluck memories from the depths of his mind, but it was like trying to squeeze a handful of thick mud; the harder he grasped, the quicker it seemed to drain away.

He only knew that he was hungry, and he hurt, and he was close to a very familiar part of the world. He could smell the rich, thick stench of hollows ever so close, tantalizingly nearby. He skulked between sand-blasted bushes and cracked terrain that belched disgusting hot air high above. His eyes flickered left and right, looking for any sign of competition, of anything he could possibly use to let some of this horrible wretched pain out on. He felt, somewhere deep back in his mind, that to do this was entirely wrong, that it was somehow a perversion. But all he knew now was that he was so damned hungry.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky, and letting loose the contents of his lungs in a single horrible scream, something earth-shaking that left him feeling drained. He poured his frustrations and hatred and pain and hunger all into his voice, shouting out a challenge that demanded answer, a beacon to any and all entities within earshot, in this dimension or any other, the message as clear as a neon sign.

Taking all Challengers. Come and get me.

Mike took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and gaze up at the sky; the sun was high, gazing down at the world below like a bully whose primary form of torture was unbearable heat. The water that was in Mike's hand had been subjected to that for what felt like an age and as a result it was basically scalding. Despite this, Mike took a large swallow and continued onward. The map that he was carrying with him showed a large ruin of some sort in the area, but as Mike scanned his surroundings he saw nothing of the sort; had he been duped? was the map authentic? He clenched his fist and kept moving forward. It was possible that the map was a fake...it was also possible that he was simply in the wrong area or hadn't traveled far enough into the one he was in.

But before he could do anything he heard a scream, mike ran towards the source of the noise and saw a man. It obviously couldn't be a regular human, besides what would they be doing all the way out here in the first place...
Noneless, he didn't know who this person was but whoever it is, he must be either crazy from the heat exhaustion or looking for a fight. Things were finally starting to look up for him.

"If you wanna fight so badly, why didn't ya ask?

Want to fight? Why did that phrase raise his hackles so much? He suddenly turned towards the source of the voice, his eyes empty and expressionless. He could feel horrible forces warring just behind his skull, in the war-torn landscape of his mind. He could tell that fighting wasn't him, that he wasn't a warrior, or a soldier, or...any of those things. But he couldn't remember what he was for fuck's sake! Every time he tried there was just this painful, wretched, cacophonous noise that began to jangle inside his head, leaving his thoughts scrambled.

He reached up, running a hand along his body. As he did, scar tissue could be seen popping up over and over, everywhere his finger touched. He let out a faint, weak trembling groan as his finger traced across his flesh. Mike could see it happening, almost anticipating the track of his fingers; scars were literally forming as he ran a finger along his body, ensuring everywhere he touched, there was some roughness there. He grimaced, shutting his eyes and beginning to tremble. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but his instincts were screaming at him, telling him that this wasn't him.

Finally, he opened both eyes, staring at Mike. Now there was intellect there...if one could call the look a cat gave a mouse intellect. Before they had been like dolls' eyes, or a shark's; merely a swirling, empty void. Now there was an almost unfathomable malice poured into them. But he didn't leap forward to strike, or start raving and screaming. He simply paused, looking at the vizard, letting his nostrils flare, and spoke in a tone of arctic, hideous finality.

"Can I help you."

Mike wasn't sure if he was the delirious due to the immense heat beaming down onto him but he could swore that the man had scare tissues coming out of his body. "Wait a second..."" He rubbed his eyes to see if it was all just his mind playing tricks on him but it was real...

Once the individual dragged his finger across his arm Mike was shocked that an abundance of scar tissue were emerging from the man as if he was lacerated with a weapon of some sorts, perhaps a sword or a claw based weapon? Whatever it was it's clear that he was too weak to fight, and whoever done this must've been very strong.

Mike was a bit upset that he wasn't in top physical condition to fight him, if he was a different person he'd just kill him right away without any sort of remorse.
Ever since he became a vizard he always belived that if you exploit your opponent's weaknesses you can use that to your advantage for an easy win.
But what's the fun in that if you can't make it more longer and interesting?

Mike looked at the man and noticed that his eyes were just..empty like all emotions and personality were just drained from his body, like leeches latching onto your blood until your nothing but skin and bones.

Mike didn't wanna be rude so he spoke to the mysterious man and said
"I couldn't make it out but it sounded like you wanted a fight i assume?"

He couldn't think. He wasn't sure why that scared him so much, but he couldn't think. The words weren't coming, his brain was churning along like thick treacle clogging up his synapses leaving him left with nothing but fury and agony and what the fuck was a synapse why the fuck did he feel like he should know what treacle was? He continued to sit there, panting, trying to make sense of all these feelings, trying to understand why he was feeling so fucking wrong. And this intruder was simply staring at him, and he could see the pity and disgust in that gaze. As if he were some muttering mumbling vagrant, accosting him.

No. He still had his pride. He was not some mere animal. Whatever he was, he could be certain of that much at least; he was no drooling retard. He just needed...needed to...he just needed to rest, and feed, and let the thoughts come naturally. He just needed some time. He needed time to let his mind warm itself back up, to kick back into gear. It was being so damnedably slow, leaving him feeling like he needed to strike this child down before he became too problematic. But there was something else, way far back, watching the boy in front of him with cold, dispassionate eyes. Sizing him up.

When he spoke this time it was a bit more exhausted than anything else, leaving him almost slumped forward from the effort of dragging the words out. Each one had a pained edge to it, like he was yanking it from great distances away.

"Not about what I want. Hurts. Burned...recently. Trying to...think. Never been in this much pain. Not sure I can keep this up much longer."

Not about what I want. Hurts. Burned...recently. Trying to...think. Never been in this much pain. Not sure I can keep this up much longer."
Based on the man's change in tone he realized that the man wasn't concerned about combat, But rather his injuries and how he may end up on the ground collapsed, gasping as he takes one last breath before heading off into the afterlife.
Mike felt pity for the man, walking out in this enviorment with a burn and getting exhausted just by speaking. Hell
he can barely say a few sentences without hurting suffering from a sharp pain. Being mike he decided to help him out despite not knowing much about him or how he got the injuries in the first place. All that matters is getting him to safety and making sure he's safe from harm.


"Look, we need to find you some medical attention right away, you won't be able to survive for much longer out here; especially with the burn.
"However I can help you find a place where you can rest and regain your strength without letting any other potential threats attack while your asleep. I prefer like a cave or something."
"It's the least i can do...what do ya say?" He said hoping for the man to accept his act of kindess.

Lips peeled away from his teeth. Something about the words 'potential threats' left him feeling...fuzzy. Delighted, in some strange way. He was absolutely certain, at that moment, that there couldn't exist anything more threatening than he himself was. But did that apply to himself, or others? Was he destroying himself, or those near him? It was hard to remember, hard to think. It was all fuzzy. He reached down once more, lips moving silently as he tried to poke and stir at the thick sludge down in his head, in the hopes of dredging something up. As he did, something came dislodged, much like a bubble encased deep in swamp muck went to the surface to pop. And pop it did, with a clear, toning sound to it that was almost deafening to him.

My name is Yaksha Dokuja. I'm a hollow.

Something was comforting about that thought. Why did that make him happy? His head told him hollows were bad; that they were something destructive, and incapable of reason. That they were suffering, and would never be able to find peace on their own. Hollows were broken creatures, trying their best to self-medicate in the aftermath of a mind-shattering event. It was absurd, imagining a hollow that would be able to interact with others on any meaningful level. So why did he take such pride in that knowledge? Why did he suddenly feel compelled to blurt what he'd just realized to the man in front of him? And why, more than anything, did he get the sense that was a very bad idea?

He finally remembered, as he looked down at himself. This wasn't the body of a hollow. Pale, but far too refined; humanoid, moreso than monstrous. The word rested on the tip of his tongue, a word for hollows that could masquerade as people...but even then, he knew such a word didn't apply to him. This was an alternative form of evolution entirely, not one brought about by strife and competition, but by innovation and drive. This was something...else. Something other. And that meant it was something all his, something unique to him. He took another slow, deep breath, and waved a hand dismissively.

"I'm just hungry. Let a few beasts run across my path. They'll nourish me. A good meal should be all I need to get myself back on my feet."

Alright then, let's get a move on who knows what's out there in this wasteland "The name's Mike Brent. I'm a vizard"

Mike wasn't all that shocked when the man was actually a hollow, he just shrugged it off like it was an everyday occurance after all most of the hollows he meet were mindless beast doing nothing but looking for souls to devour. The fact that a hollow could control it's animalistic tendancies was interesting to say the least, almost similar to how he has to keep his inner hollow in check.

A few minutes later the two reached upon a cave, when they entered the rugged and weary walls stood surrounding them. They seemed so strong yet so beaten from the elements. Cold air filled every corner and warmth seemed to of have tried crawling to its way in here. Darkness swallowed everything and seemed to make worries come into his mind of something unseen.

"It's not much but hopefully it's quiet enough"

Mike sat down on the cold rocky floor as he reached down his side pocket and grabbed something what could it be? Well a canteene of course. The canteen was small and covered in a small cloth, the design of it was basic to say the least only consisting of stripes and a symbol of sort.
He shooked the canteen to see if there was any water leftover, it make a sloosh sound which meant there was still plenty left to drink. Mike sat down and gave Yaksha the canteen to quench his dying thirst. "Here drink up" he said offering it to him.

"Yaksha. That sounds right. I think I'm Yaksha. Dokuja. Don't ask me who I was before that, though. It's a bit of a blur right now. I'm...trying to come back, but I'm so damn hungry."

One hand bunched into a fist as the other pushed away the canteen, none-too-gently, and dear god his hand was cold. It felt like Mike had just plunged his hand into a fistful of snow, and there was already moisture forming on his hand. As Yaksha glanced at him, his eyes began to slowly and gently rotate, as he was being watched; the slits in them went from upright to horizontal, in a span of perhaps ten seconds, before he reached a hand down his own throat, as if he were trying to dislodge a particularly large frog.

He let out wet, wretched gagging sounds as his hand slipped around inside his mouth, which had dislodged and extended to a size large enough to encompass Mike's own head; it was a slow, hideous-looking process, and Mike could even see a very large lump in his throat, slowly travelling towards the surface. He let out a faint grimace, eyes rolling around the cavern wildly, as he slowly and forcefully yanked...himself. Out of himself.

Out of a large pile of snow, about the size of a horse, that his body had suddenly dissolved into. Instead, Mike could now see a very tall, slender lizard, standing on two legs, with a hand clasped tightly onto his own head. For a few seconds it looked outright silly, as he bowed with his other hand folded over his torso, then dislodged the grip from his own head. As he moved, faint glimmers of light could be seen glinting off of him. At first it was hard to tell what one was seeing, but if the Vizard moved a bit closer, he would've noticed that there were silvers of glass, some as large as a fist, embedded in his body periodically. These were interspersed with splotches of burnt flesh, the most prominent as big as both of Mike's hands splayed out together, covering the center of his torso. He looked, in short, like someone who had just been put through the wringer, and was lucky to still be standing.

"You know me. I'm not much for water. I need to eat. I need sustenance to grow new flesh. And time. My mind...I'll need something a bit stronger to get that pieced back together."